Next time don't write to me via Barmen again; Mother leaves the letters lying there until she writes herself, and that is often a long time. But what I wanted to write to you — only you must not write this home, for I want to surprise them with it next spring — I now have an enormous moustache and shall presently add to it a Henry IV and goatee beard. Mother will wonder when suddenly such a long, black-bearded fellow comes across the lawn. Next year, when I go to Italy, I too must look like an Italian.
Of gallant gentlemen far and wide.
In brown or black mustachios.
By shaving their faces as clean as a whistle.
Can let our mustachios flourish free.
Who bears his moustaches like a man.
For having moustaches banished and banned.
Who won't hand over the key of the door.
And may their nights give them no rest.
Thereupon there was more clinking of glasses. So it continued until ten o'clock, then those without keys had to leave, but we, the fortunate ones with keys, remained seated and ate oysters. I ate eight, but could not manage any more, I still don't enjoy the things.
Since you are so fond of calculations and even want to reward me for them with the Order of the Yellow Envelope, I shall graciously regale you with the remark that Courant now stands at 106 1/2 per cent, while a year ago it stood at 114. The louis d'or are falling so that anyone here in Bremen who had a million talers a year ago now only has 900,000, that is, 100,000 talers less. Isn't that tremendous?